


Schatz

by glacis



Category: From Eroica with Love
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-31
Updated: 2010-01-31
Packaged: 2017-10-06 21:34:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/57983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glacis/pseuds/glacis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Klaus and Dorian chase one another across Greece, England and Iran, discovering treasures along the way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Schatz

_Schatz, an Eroica story with Klaus interruptions by Sue Castle.  Spoilers for books 4-7. Heartfelt thanks to the fan translators who made this fandom accessible in English. This was **fun** \-- an American writing about an Englishman and a German created by a Japanese artist, set in Greece and Iran. With thanks to J and M._

 

** _On a cliff side in Greece, late 1970's_ **

The safety of his agent, useless little transvestite faggot that G was, and the capture of Maija Bulgakow should have been the only things on Major Klaus Eberbach's mind. As his subordinate yelped unmanly things about falling out of the car, he leaned out the window and took careful aim.

"Now, that's a good position," he muttered to the wind as the .357 magnum in his right hand bucked. The bullet went precisely where it was meant to go : into the rear tire of the automobile being driven by the hostile agents attacking the Earl's frivolous Maserati. If it had been a good, solid German car it wouldn't have been so easy to overtake.

It wouldn't have gone over the cliff.

"Major! The Earl's car ..."

He threw himself with controlled violence from his own car and skidded to a stop at the edge of the cliff. To his chagrin, he couldn't control his clenched teeth, his wide, staring eyes, or the wordless exclamation that escaped him as the little red car crashed and bounced several hundred meters down into the pounding surf. No more could he control the stunned need to stand, staring blankly for long moments, at the ripples in the water where Eroica had plunged to his death.

In that instant, truth was born deep in his mind. The thief had been a nuisance, an abomination, and a queer to boot. He'd gotten in the way, mucked up assignments, and hindered Eberbach's duties.

He had eyes that would make the sky blush from jealousy and an air of mischief about him that made Eberbach forget himself. His skin under Eberbach's fists had been softer than any rose he'd ever touched. Something within Klaus had drowned along with Eroica.

The wind was in his ears, and his heartbeat as well. It was no wonder he almost missed the shaky English voice.

"Major?"

Peering over his left shoulder, he saw a ghost. He turned further and looked more closely.

No. Ghosts didn't bleed.

Dorian Red Gloria sat against the base of the hill, G prone beside him. One elegant, bruised hand rested on the agent's back. His hair was falling in his face. His foppish shirt was ripped and torn. One shoulder and the opposite forearm were bleeding. One knee was scratched, showing through the hole in his trousers.

Eberbach had never seen anything so lovely in his life. He stared into the face of the man he'd just realized he loved. He couldn't move.

"H'lo." The Earl's voice was whimsical. It matched the look in his eyes. "Long time no see, eh?"

"What ... " Klaus had to swallow to get enough moisture in his mouth to finish his sentence, "are you doing over there?" He sounded mechanical even to himself. He had no idea what his expression was giving away. He had a nasty suspicion his usual Iron Klaus mask had slipped completely.

It degenerated from that point. It always did. He yelled, Eroica flirted, G protested his innocence and was ignored. Eberbach tried to concentrate on terrorizing his subordinate; it wasn't nearly as much fun as it usually was. Even in that, the thief wouldn't let him be.

"Major ..." he seduced Klaus again with that voice. Klaus glared at him.

Dorian's eyes were soft, in a face scraped and bloodied, as he looked up at Klaus. "I think an entanglement of wire rope and a rose vine is a rather sadistically wonderful combination."

Eberbach intensified the glare. Eventually, it burned through the irritating glow in what passed for the Earl's brain, and the idiot had the sense to look at least a little nervous. It helped, both with intimidation and to burn off his own nervous energy, when he grabbed the front of Eroica's shirt and nearly lifted him off his feet, screaming into his face. Those long, deceptively strong white fingers waved at him as Eroica lifted his hands in surrender.

The glare melted into a stare. He didn't know what to say. He didn't know what to do.

He didn't know how to deal with knowledge he'd just as soon never have gained. With love he couldn't admit, and would never act upon. With the betrayal of resolve that could kill him if it was given purchase in his soul.

Eroica glanced at him over one scratched, bloody shoulder. Klaus sighed.

"I can at least give you some mercurochrome."

Of course, Eroica whined. Then the rest of his alphabet of subordinates showed up, late as usual, and the mission he'd thought completed blew up in his face. Again.

The KGB bitch had escaped.

And she'd taken the Buddha that Eroica had come to steal.

It was the final straw.

"She stole MY Buddha?!" Eroica yelped.

Eberbach gave him a glare that would strip paint off a wall at twenty paces. Eroica matched him glare for glare. A prickle of unwilling admiration for the man's determination when it came to his thievery slid through Eberbach; as usual, he ignored it. Also as usual, he warned the thief, "stay away!"

Then he stomped over to his Benz and screeched off after his Soviet prey.

Only to pull a quick turn-around, roll down the window and toss a bottle of mercurochrome at the Earl. Who caught it. Sans cap. All over his chest and arms.

Eberbach staunchly refused to think about how appealing Eroica had looked, staring down at himself, mouth dropped open, an appalled expression on his sharp-nosed English face. He had a duty to perform. A job to do. The secrets of NATO to protect.

A secret of his own to bury.

He managed to avoid seeing the Earl face to face for the rest of the mission. After that, he returned to Germany and did his best to forget the man even existed. For the next several months, it was easy. Work, work, and more work. Subordinates to bully, a boss to disdain, foes to best. It was a satisfactory life.

If his thoughts escaped his control at times, late at night, and he went to sleep with the image of bright wide blue eyes and wild golden curls against the black of his bedroom ceiling, no one knew it but himself.

He would deny it, even **to** himself, in the light of day.

And so life continued.

** _The Earl of Red Gloria's castle, North Downs, England, shortly afterward_ **

This had **not** been the way Dorian expected his party to go. He had more than enough stress on his plate hosting the annual underground conference at his castle. He certainly didn't need the unlikely trio of NATO, the CIA and the KGB to move into the neighborhood.

Such terrible timing.

Although he had to admit Klaus had looked absolutely delicious standing in his foyer, one elbow balanced carelessly against a column, trench coat flowing romantically behind him, fringe brushing the tips of his eyelashes.

It had even been worth having to explain a NATO agent to his fellow criminal peers to see Klaus' reaction to being hit on by the polished Mafia blonde. Then all the other little spy clones had shown up, Klaus had gone into one of his little rants, as usual, and promised to spoil things. So Dorian had stopped him.

"IDIOTS!" he bellowed in his very best version of 'Eberbach on the warpath.'

To his amused surprise, it stopped the Iron Major in his tracks. Along with the KGB and the CIA. The rest of his guests had looked impressed. He managed not to giggle and ruin the effect.

"Don't cause an international incident here!" he ordered. Especially not here, he added silently; none of my guests can afford that much media exposure. "What about your supposed missions?"

With that pithy reminder, the spies flew in all directions ... except Klaus, who looked at Dorian and asked him, politely, where he'd learned to yell like that.

"I just imitated you, Major," he answered truthfully. An expression that looked very much like a suppressed smile glittered in Klaus' beautiful green eyes. Or it could have been repressed temper. It was hard to tell with his German madman.

"I've said this much too often," Klaus warned him, eyes locking with Dorian's, "but don't EVER interfere with my mission, Lord Gloria." The usual angry growl was oddly absent from his command.

"Roger," he teased back. "National Defense Army Man." He loved to tweak Klaus about his weakness for tanks. He rarely got the chance. He was hoping the guests might stop Klaus from punching him for it. Luckily, it worked.

"Idiot," was all Klaus tossed over his shoulder as he left. It sounded almost affectionate.

The party went on from there, with the guests taking the spy sideshow in good-humored stride. Dorian even got some information that he was able to pass on to Klaus. He saved it for that night and rang up NATO headquarters. If the only contact he could have with his Major was illicit, he'd make it as illicit as possible. He dressed in satin night clothes and reclined against over-stuffed pillows, staring at the lush hangings of his bed and wondering what lightly tanned skin, raven-black hair and Mosel-green eyes would look like against the amber velvet.

About the time he decided Klaus would look a veritable visual feast against that backdrop, the object of his fantasies picked up the telephone.

When Dorian told him he was in bed, Klaus nearly hung up again. He barely stayed on the line long enough for Dorian to give him the information on the Neo-Nazis that he'd gotten from his Italian friend at the party. Listening to the raspy voice on the other end of the line, Dorian couldn't help himself.

"You sound fatigued, Major." He nestled the receiver between his shoulder and ear and wrapped his free hand around his knees. He could picture Klaus, narrowed eyes, hand brushing through his hair, tie loose around his neck. It made him shiver. "Why don't you take a nice long hot bath and get a good night's sleep every once in awhile? And smoking so much is unhealthy for you. Are you eating properly?"

To his surprise, Klaus didn't immediately slam the telephone down. His heart lifted.

"You'd make someone a fine wife," the Major growled tiredly at him. "I don't have time to listen to this bullshit. Good-bye."

Unable to resist, Dorian murmured, "I'll pray for your fortunes of war, Mr. Tank Commander. Good night." He kissed the air in front of the receiver, and gently hung up on the sound of Klaus screaming "Idiot!" on the other end of the line. For a moment, at least, he could pretend that he'd just finished a conversation with the man he loved, who loved him back.

If one was going to fantasize, one might as well be thorough.

Two days later, directly back from a trip to France to coax a stubborn elder statesman of crime out of retirement in order to make his underground conference a complete success, he had the surprise of a lifetime. Instead of being off chasing Neo-Nazi terrorists, Klaus was chasing **him**.

He made certain, when he allowed himself to be caught, the stage would be set. He was wearing lace and velvet, awaiting his Major in the privacy of his bedroom. Klaus stalked in. He sighed in appreciation.

He'd been right. His German lion looked magnificent against the sapphire and amber of his bedchamber. He tried to make light conversation.

Klaus ordered him to take off his pants.

His throat went dry and his knees refused to cooperate. He stared, wide-eyed, up at Klaus. Klaus pointed at him.

"You heard me. Take them off!"

As romantic lines went, he'd heard much better. From virgins. Even from women, frightening as that had been. But if this was the best Major Eberbach could do ... who was he to quibble? He gave Klaus his best, most melting sideways glance.

"You could've been honest and told me before now." Dorian certainly couldn't deny he found the whole situation arousing. He was just glad he'd decided to meet the Major in his bedroom. "Well, I suppose this is as a good place as any to --"

"No need to take the shirt off," Klaus interrupted him. He froze. "All I need are the trousers. Hurry up!"

His erection wilted a tad, but refused to fade. He gulped, trying desperately to maintain his composure. "You really are direct. Are all military men like you?"

Any semblance of prospective lover faded as Klaus started yelling at him to get undressed immediately. The urgency in his voice made up, somewhat, for the abrupt manner of his expression. Not wanting his delicate suit to be ripped to shreds by the impatient man, Dorian quickly stepped out of his trousers.

Only to have Klaus demand ... his underwear.

To his horror and embarrassment, Klaus turned his underpants over to a subordinate, barking something about codes and stitches. Dorian felt a bit like the leftovers at a bridal feast; all decked out and ready to party, left behind to get cold on the table whilst the party went elsewhere.

"Is that all?" he asked in a small voice.

"I needed the underwear," Klaus informed him, holding the clothing in question between two fingers as if it was infested with wildlife. "I don't need you."

Dorian was crushed. "Really," he said wistfully. "I'm disappointed." Not completely surprised, but definitely disappointed. "When you told me to take them off," he continued, needing to say it even though he had a feeling such confessions would cause Klaus to explode like a bomb, "for a moment I was overjoyed. I thought you'd finally decided you wanted to ... do it." He put every ounce of suggestion he could into the last two words, and from an expert such as he, that was one hell of a lot of suggestion.

As expected, Klaus grabbed him by the shirt front and growled at him like a feral wolf. He very nearly shook what few clothes remained right off Dorian's back. By this time, arousal, doused by embarrassment and crushed by an audience, had twisted into anger of his own. He sniffed in disdain at Klaus' pushy subordinates. He allowed Klaus to bark at James without so much as lifting a finger to protect his miserable accountant. In fact, he snarled at James himself, for putting him in such a humiliating predicament.

For allowing his hopes (and other things) to be raised, only to have it (them) dashed cruelly. Really. It was beyond belief. He went off in a huff, managing to disregard the fact that Klaus had departed in a huff that mirrored his in nearly every detail.

Of course, the huff didn't last long. Not when there was adventure to be had, and Klaus to torment. So he followed his Major back to the place where the conference was being held, ignored the other spies, and performed a daring maneuver to lift the explosives-laden vase from between the US and Soviet leaders on international television with none being the wiser that Eroica had just saved the summit for world peace from disaster and the world from possible nuclear war.

Just another day in the glamorous life of Eroica, international art thief and host extraordinaire.

Of course, it helped that he had an excuse to work with Klaus, in any capacity he could get. He took it. Running from the house with the vase in his hands as the seconds ticked down on the bomb, he threw it to Klaus, who dashed off with it, looking very fetching as his slacks stretched over the tensing muscles of his arse and thighs. Dorian followed, unable to maintain his distance, as Klaus pitched the vase with a perfect aim that would make any cricket bowler proud, then turned back to him.

"Lord Gloria!" he shouted. "Get back! Duck!"

Then Heaven intervened and granted him a boon, because Klaus threw his body atop Dorian's and bore him to the ground, rolling them both in fresh spring grass.

The vase made a very large boom when it exploded.

Dorian lay beside the Major, chin pillowed on his arms, watching in quiet disbelief as the tensions of the past few days caught up with then melted Iron Klaus. It touched him that, regardless of what the man said when he was awake, he trusted Dorian enough to watch his back as he slept.

So Dorian did.

He fantasized about making love to him. Admired the long lean lines of his body in the dark suit, sprawled against the bright green grass. Plucked a leaf or five from the flyaway dark hair, and sent them fluttering away in the wind with a puff of air from his pursed lips. But he didn't touch him. He simply sat, there on the hillside, and watched over him. Smiled at him. At himself.

Wondered when he'd been fool enough to fall in love with a man who would never feel anything but contempt for him.

Well, contempt, and a tiny portion of trust.

Shrugging away the thought, Dorian blanked his mind, and concentrated on the moment. The smell of spring. The sight of Klaus. The might-have-beens.

The maybe-laters.

Laughing to himself, he waited for Klaus to awaken. When he did, Dorian didn't say another word. He simply handed Klaus a fallen leaf, and walked away.

** _On the border between Turkey and Iran, early 1980's_ **

It had seemed like a good idea at the time. Go to Turkey; deal with the incompetent Turkish airmen and the stupid, incompetent Italian spies; infiltrate Iran; retrieve the plans to the SS18 MARV missile the incompetent Pahlevi had left behind when he'd fled; go home.

The meeting at the Turkish airbase had gone well. He'd screamed at the stupid Wop who tried to lecture him on cultural sensitivity, abraded him for his incompetence in getting no more than a single name in three months of sitting on his lazy ass and drinking tea, and fitted agents E, H, K, L, M and I out in native costume in order to cross the border into Iran. The sheep smelled disgusting, the mules slightly less so, the camels decidedly moreso, and after enough time under the stinking sun in the middle of the filthy desert, so did he and his agents. But he could put up with any unpleasantness to fulfill his duty.

Until this.

He'd lied to the sentries at the crossing, getting through the gates with ridiculous ease, even being complimented on the beauty of his wife, a fact which had caused great consternation to Agent H. Perhaps it was the eyebrows. He'd been nearly through the danger zone when an accented voice exclaimed, "You must be European!"

His blood turned to ice in his veins. Showing none of his sudden adrenaline surge, as usual, he turned casually and glanced over his shoulder. A light voice babbled brightly to the stunned-looking guard, "Oh, yes, I was a BBC reporter before that."

His heart stopped, further cooling his body. He felt frozen, numb. He pivoted on one boot heel, eyes flying wide as he recognized the man who was usually only a nuisance but could, in this case, actually get him killed. If he called Klaus 'Major' or said one word about NATO, his life and those of his men would instantly be forfeit. It must not be allowed to happen.

Eroica stared back at him with an equally stunned look on his face, blue eyes impossibly wide, mouth slightly agape. He should have looked like an idiot. Instead, he merely looked impossibly attractive.

Incredibly dangerous.

Eberbach's thoughts chased themselves for an eternity that was in reality only a few seconds. A plan was formulated and implemented instinctively.

"Allah-akhbal!" Literally, it was praise to Allah; in reality, it was both more fervidly prayerful and closer to an obscenity than one might expect. He flung his arms out to sweep Eroica into a powerful embrace, not surprised in the least when the man reciprocated.

Leave it to the queer to cop every feel he could take.

Refusing to acknowledge how apt that thought was to himself as well as the thief, Klaus whipped his pistol out of the holster and nudged Eroica's abdomen with the barrel. Under cover of greeting and hidden between their bodies, the onlookers had no idea how close they were to witnessing murder.

"Don't say a goddamned word, Eroica, or I'll blow a hole in your belly."

At that moment he felt an unexpected prick at the base of his throat. A thin cold sliver of highly-sharpened metal whispered against his skin.

"It cuts both ways, Major."

He pulled back slightly, only enough to look in his enemy's eyes. They were sparkling. He raised his hand between them, until the end of the barrel traced the corner of Eroica's ridiculously gaudy collar. There was something undeniably erotic about the steel crossing his knuckles and highlighting the black deadliness of his own gun. He swallowed, trying to pull away.

Eroica held on more tightly.

"Mach keinen Scheiss," he muttered. "Don't fuck around."

"Don't you think the audience would benefit from a little show?"

There was a world of possibilities in Eroica's voice. It was hotter than the desert, shimmering with heat. He felt his groin push closer of its own accord, and forced himself to stillness. It was the opening Eroica had been waiting for.

"Duustah mane," Eroica whispered against his skin as he began to nuzzle Klaus' face, lying and calling him friend. The sensation of soft lips moving so close to his rooted him to the spot. "Mallah bevus ... kiss me ..."

His tongue was thick in his mouth, and his brain was thicker still in his head. Finally, he managed to grunt, "What ... You ... Verdammt noch mal!"

"Carter --" Eroica kissed the corner of his mouth, "and Brezhnev --" and the other corner, "hugged and kissed --" a nibble along his jaw line, "each other."

"Don't compare me to a Yank and a polar bear!" He was really quite proud of the fact that he'd managed a complete sentence. What it lacked in vehemence it made up for in coherence, at least given his current mental weakness.

Eroica drew back and had the effrontery to rub the tip of his nose over Eberbach's. "How about Chancellor Schmidt and --"

Finally! An insult to which he could react! "Are you insulting my country?" he barked quietly. "Bist du verrueckt? Are you insane?"

The arms around his neck tightened, feeling uncannily like a noose, and that damnedable mouth took aim at the side of his neck. Between bites, he thought he heard something about suspicions and not being so tense. It was difficult to determine, since his English was draining out of his skull along with his mind. Eroica was very talented with his mouth.

Not to mention his hands. The hand that wasn't playing in the hair hidden under his burnoose was around his waist, pulling them tightly together. It had to be stopped. It simply must. If they got any closer, Eroica would certainly feel the erection Klaus was trying so desperately to ignore.

If they got any closer, he would not be held accountable for his actions. Since he didn't want to actually commit murder, be taken into custody and have his identity discovered, he'd simply have to throw the man to the ground, rip off his robes and fuck him to death.

This was the Middle East. Things like that probably happened all the time. Especially when Englishmen were involved.

God, even if Klaus didn't believe in Him, was merciful. A guard wandered up to them and tentatively asked them to hurry, since they were clogging up the passage at the gate. Eroica **finally** let him go. He tried to take a deep breath and couldn't. His groin hurt too much.

Ignoring everyone and everything, he stomped over to his mule and mounted with much more care than he allowed the others to notice. Once over the border, Eroica attempted to question him, and he fobbed the fop off curtly.

"Das geht dich einen absoluten Scheissdreck an. None of your fucking business. Stay the hell out of my way."

The fool then had the audacity to wish him good fortune.

"Forward," he bellowed at his men, turning his back to the nuisance and wishing irrationally that the mule could stomp as loudly as he himself **wished** to stomp. Out of sight of Dorian's caravan, he called for antiseptic alcohol. He had to get the feel of that mouth off his skin.

It burned.

"I don't think he's contagious," Agent L dared suggest.

"God only knows," he countered. He tried telling himself that he hated Eroica more than anyone he'd ever met in his life.

All the way to Tehran, he repeated it to himself. His skin still burned. His groin still hurt. And the afterimage of golden hair and sapphire eyes remained, etched indelibly into his mind, glowing against the desert sand.

It was bad enough to love the bastard. Eberbach was not in the least happy to discover that he desired him, as well.

 

King Pahlevi's treasure had drawn Eroica to Iran. The drama and romance of the Silk Road called to him, not to mention the beauty of the jewels. But the opportunity to hold Klaus von dem Eberbach in his arms, feel his skin under his lips, run his fingers over the coiled strength of his back ... that was a treasure beyond price or imagination.

James was fussing again as Dorian reluctantly unwrapped his arms from around his darling Major. The guard whispered in a commiserating tone that he understood why he'd want men when his wife was so ugly, and he managed not to stutter as he agreed.

"You were snogging with the Major, weren't you?" James bawled. Dorian sighed, watching the last of the dust fade behind the NATO caravan.

"What are you whinging about, James?"

"What was going on between you two?" his jealous little accountant demanded. "You were holding on to one another for a whole minute and a half!"

Was that all? Dorian wondered. It felt like forever. Not nearly long enough. "A gun and a knife," he answered carelessly.

"You were threatening each other?" It sounded like poor Jamesy couldn't decide whether to be appalled or aroused.

"Quite," he smiled slightly. From the look on James' face, the pendulum swung toward arousal with a resounding clang, and nearly made the little man swoon.

James' grimy face was glowing. "To threaten and be threatened, to love and be loved ... Oooh! It's the intense esthetic of sadism ... M'lord! I didn't know you and the Major shared such an abnormal passion!"

Dorian watched with interest as his men took a nearly comatose James into their care. Bonham assured him it was only heatstroke, and he turned back to watch the distant dots on the horizon that were all that remained of Klaus and his agents. His heart felt heavy that they wouldn't meet any time soon; Iran was a big country, and he had no idea what NATO wanted in it. Putting the Major aside, for the moment, he mentally wished him luck, and turned back toward his golden treasure.

The taste of him lingered on Dorian's tongue. The feel of him tingled in his fingertips. The scent of him mingled with the rose oil on his robes. He was surrounded by Klaus as he headed off on his hunt. If he couldn't have the man in reality, he'd take all the fuel for fantasy he could steal. It was, after all, what he did best.

Of course, this being the mysterious Middle East, and his life being what it was, it wasn't the last he saw of the Major. The next time they met was in the middle of a break-in at the Palace, surrounded by Revolutionary Guards, nearly giving one another heart failure, each thinking the other was there to kill him.

Klaus, also to be expected, called him a psychotic stalker and demanded that he leave. Then he'd submitted, as had become the pattern, and they worked quite well together to retrieve their respective treasures. There had been one moment when he'd placed a string of emeralds against the Major's chest and admired the gleam they reflected from eyes as deeply green as the gems themselves. To his everlasting shock, Klaus had allowed the liberty. Not for long, but at least he hadn't gotten slapped for it.

Well, there had been a few other wonderful moments ... following Klaus' black-clad form through the palace halls, watching his magnificent body strain as he moved the tiles hiding the treasure ... watching Klaus strip when they exchanged outfits ... almost being gutted as the Major pulled him back from the treasure's hiding place with enough force to nearly send him through the wall ... hmm. Not all of the moments had been pure bliss.

Still, perched lightly on the parapet along the top of the palace after they'd escaped and gone their separate ways again, he'd felt as though he was inhabiting Scheherazade's Arabian Nights.

Back at Bakhazial's home in Beirut, musing on the romantic shortcomings of the man he loved, he stared down at the spill of emeralds glinting across his palm and smiled softly. It didn't really matter. When the Major started talking, oh, the moon, the stars, the flowers and the dreams ... he was all those things, in his entirety. If ever the 'iron' were to lose its rigidity, that would be the end of the world.

It was a tad lowering to discover, after all this time, that he loved the irascible, short-tempered, emotionally frozen, unimaginative soldier precisely as he was.

In a vain attempt to rescue something of his Silk Road Adventure fantasies, he set off across the desert in a jeep. In a burst of generosity, he brought James.

Halfway to Palmyra, he was wishing he'd sent the man fourth class Aeroflot back to London.

Leaving the perpetually-whining James in the vehicle, he stepped out amongst the ruins of the city and allowed his imagination to transport him over two thousand years into the past. He could hear the merchants, the townspeople, the priests and priestesses, bustling through the streets. The crumbled stones grew into temples and houses, gleaming white and painted vividly in the bright desert sunlight.

For an instant, the splendor that had been Palmyra, the beauty and tragedy of Queen Zenovia, the poetry and pageantry of the ancient civilization sang through him. Then the world resumed its shape around him and he had to smile at his flights of fancy. The sweep of history made him feel small, fragile, insignificant. He caught sight of James scavenging for tourists' droppings among the stones, and shook his head. Time stood still, yet seemed to fly on the wings of the wind.

With a start, he realized that the steady thumping sound coming to him on the breeze **wasn't** in his imagination, and he snatched up the binoculars. The grim sight of Klaus' visage, stark as a hawk on the hunt, panicked him. Reality was **not** going to give him time to enjoy his dreams!

"James!" he shrieked. "It's the Major! RUN!"

The next several moments were a scene from his personal version of Hell. Unable to avoid the attacking helicopter, unable to outrun it, with no idea whatsoever why Eberbach was chasing him, he screamed in sheer disbelief when Klaus started to **shoot** at him.

The jeep, nearly out of petrol anyway, flipped over as he and James jumped for their lives. The helicopter landed not far away, and Klaus and his interchangeable agents marched toward them. He smiled internally, although he maintained a neutral expression, not wanting to give away his plan.

So, the Major would strand them in the desert, eh? Ha. He'd still make his escape ... he'd simply steal the NATO helicopter! It would go well with the German tank currently residing in his garden.

"Hullo, Major," he purred once Klaus was within range. "You wanted me?"

"Don't flatter yourself, idiot," the Major growled with a hint of triumph. "I want the dagger you stole. Give it to me."

Dorian gave him a sideways look.

"Don't worry, you'll get it back when I'm through with it."

For some reason, Dorian trusted him. He handed it over without a quibble.

"That wasn't as difficult as I expected you to be," Klaus commented, shaking a small canister from the sheath before tossing it back to Dorian.

"I know when to fight and when to walk away," he said as pleasantly as he could through clenched teeth. "Now that you've got what you want, what are you planning to do with me?"

The triumphant gleam in Klaus' expression expanded until it could be termed insufferably smug. "It might not be a bad idea to cooperate with Interpol, for a change."

"Wouldn't be a good idea from where I'm standing," Dorian protested. "Are you sure you won't change your mind?"

It was Major Eberbach. Of course he wouldn't change his mind. So Dorian did as he'd planned all along.

He stranded Klaus before Klaus could strand him. Yelling for James, he dove past the startled NATO agents and threw himself into the helicopter. Palming the controls, he headed off in a combat take-off, or the closest he could get in a rotary as opposed to fixed-wing aircraft.

"Sorry, darling!" he called down to the abandoned Major, laughing lightly. "I simply couldn't let you hand me over to them!"

In very little time, he wasn't laughing. He was cursing. The helicopter ran out of fuel within twenty miles of where they'd taken off. He was frustrated. Irritated. He felt cheated.

It wasn't nice to cheat a thief.

Chewing over the thought, not enjoying the taste, he left James outside to wave down any errant tourists who might be on their way to Palmyra, and fired up the wireless.

"Attention, KGB," he sang sweetly. "NATO's Iron Klaus is sitting on his bum in the desert north of Palmyra. Go get him and you just might get some very valuable information!" Feeling nastily cheerful about his revenge, he hung up the handset and settled against the seat, staring up into the magnificent colors of the sunset as an incredible crescent moon rose.

He knew his Klaus. The man lived and breathed conflict. He'd escape. Somehow.

He wasn't so certain of himself, an hour later, when a jeep bearing the unpleasant minions of Interpol showed up at the side of the helicopter. Fortunately, they were tailed quite closely by members of Mr. Bakhzial's personal guard. During the ensuing gun battle, two very large Iranian bodyguards towed him bodily into yet another jeep, hauling James behind them like a loudly crying afterthought. It was a fast, wild ride back to Beirut. A fitting end to his Persian adventure.

Perhaps not surprisingly, his thoughts were occupied with thoughts of Klaus all the way home to London on Bakhzial's private jet. Most of them involved at least partial nudity. All of them involved shared personal space. Several involved perspiration and scented lotion. A few involved manacles.

Happily, there was a lock on the door to the loo.

** _Bonn_ _, West Germany_ _, a few months later_ **

Escaping Iran had been less stressful than entering. The only thing he'd had to do was beat up four incompetent KGB fools, appropriate their helicopter, fly it to a NATO base in Turkey then fly from there to Bonn on a Luftwaffe transport. It had actually been rather enjoyable. Not nearly as difficult as allowing himself to be pawed by Eroica in order to avoid the border guards' suspicion.

  
The fact that **that** had **also** been enjoyable was one he only dwelt on in extremely private moments. He took pains to ensure that he was constantly busy in the months that followed to keep those very private moments at a minimum. Settling in for an autumn of protecting NATO's security, Eberbach didn't realize he had a hole in his own.

His town home was immaculately kept, extremely private and nearly empty of servants. He preferred it that way. He relied on the finest surveillance equipment NATO could provide to ensure that his territory was not encroached upon and to protect him from all of his enemies, ranging from the KGB to his own chief.

Unfortunately, it wasn't an obstacle to a determined thief. Whether Eroica could be classified, technically, as an enemy, given the number of illicit and erotic dreams Eberbach'd had about him, was another matter altogether.

He was already in bed and asleep when disaster struck. He awoke to a cool breeze and soft lips touching the skin of his chest. This made no sense, since he'd gone to bed wearing his normal pajamas, undershirt and shorts. Without anyone else in the room who had lips. He certainly wasn't kissing his own chest. Other than the anatomical impossibility of such a caress, there was the undeniable fact that his own mouth was busy gaping open like a half-wit and issuing moans like a calf in heat.

Those two facts woke him up faster than the realization that there was an intruder in the room.

Instincts honed over a lifetime of duty and an adulthood as a modern-day warrior leapt into action. Tripped over arousal. Subsided in the face of overwhelming odds. Surrendered without a whimper as Eroica stripped him with an ease that would have been humiliating if he'd been able to appreciate anything other than graceful hands on his skin and a beautiful face nuzzling his groin.

Never, ever, in his entire life, had he ever felt anything like it. He was defenseless, at the mercy of a master. Seduced before he was entirely awake, his body, starved for the entirety of its existence for such a touch, ignored his mind and his will completely to go enthusiastically over to the enemy camp. Once his mind realized it was over-run and over-taken, it did as any decently trained military instrument would, and retreated in disarray, to regroup and fight another day.

At which point his own hands joined the action.

No longer constrained by conflicting desires to beat the hell out of Dorian and finally, finally touch him, Klaus lifted the slighter man bodily from him. Ignoring the startled yelp, a decidedly English "Oi!" he flipped their bodies over and covered that incredibly warm body with his own. Dorian moved like quicksilver under his hands, so he brought his legs and arms and mouth to bear on the problem of capturing Light in his bed.

Wrapping his thighs around Dorian's, capturing those truant hands with his own, he gave in to the ravenous need to touch, licking and kissing every part of Dorian's body he could reach. The sounds of protest issuing from Dorian's mouth quickly transformed to sounds of enjoyment, then positive encouragement. Unfortunately, by the time Klaus realized that he had Dorian completely immobilized, he also realized that he didn't have the faintest idea what to do with him next.

Lifting his head far enough to look down into Dorian's face, he was gratified by the dazed look on the expressive features. Hazy blue eyes gradually sharpened into focus as the Earl realized that Klaus had stopped moving.

"What?" he slurred. His mouth was swollen, his lips red. He looked debauched. It was a natural look for him. Klaus was compelled to kiss him again.

When he lifted his head the second time, Dorian was hazier than before he'd begun. That was encouraging, too. But it wasn't enough. He didn't know what perverts did together. He just knew he had to do it. Now. With Dorian.

"Schatz," he rasped, unable to come up with anything more definite. He'd never be artistic in the way Dorian was, never wanted to be, but he knew treasure when it was in his hands.

Reading his mind, or perhaps so closely attuned to his body his actions merely appeared to be psychic, Dorian began to slither beneath him. Instinctively, Klaus burrowed further between the slim, muscular thighs now wrapping around his hips. Long arms slid around his neck, bringing him closer, and Dorian hissed in the general direction of his ear, "Just like a woman, or so I've been told, only a hell of a lot more fun."

Eberbach didn't have the nerve to mention that he'd never been with a woman, so he had no basis for comparison. In the next few moments, it didn't matter, because Dorian gave a shudder, rolled his body in a movement any cat would envy, and slipped one hand between their bodies. He felt strong warm fingers grasp his penis, then he was engulfed in a cross between an inferno and a vise.

"Always prepared," Dorian gasped at him. "The creed of a good thief."

Then he wriggled, and what few remnants of his mind Klaus had managed to salvage scattered to the four winds.

Nothing could have prepared him for this. His body was completely out of control. His mind had abdicated to his hormones, which were singing marching tunes and waving flags. His hips were driving into that incredible heat with an unstoppable rhythm, much like a tank song, and Dorian's skin was bruising under his mouth, under his fingertips.

Pressure slid along the backs of his calves as Dorian ran his feet up and down them. It reminded him irresistibly of a horseman spurring on his mount, and he reacted in much the same manner, driving harder, thrusting deeper. Skilled hands roved over his arms, his shoulders, played along the side of his face, fingertips dabbling in his mouth, pressing at his tongue.

Dorian's head arched back against the pillow, wild curls dampening into tight corkscrews with perspiration as his free hand went down to caress himself. Klaus watched, unable to help himself, as he'd been unable to stop himself from participating in any of this decadence.

The joining of their bodies was cream white against rose red, fingers on stalk, thigh pale against his own darker skin, hair golden brown against the jet black of his own. Then Dorian's heels came up and locked around his waist, the hand on his erection beat a nearly brutal rhythm, and the chapped lips opened in a soundless scream as Klaus felt fingers clench in his hair and the vise clench around his thrusting cock at the same moment. Fluid spurted over Dorian's knuckles, trickling down across his wrist, and Klaus froze, buried deeply, watching with fascination.

One of his hands unlatched from Dorian's hip and traced a ropy line of liquid. It felt like pearl, lighter than his own, and he lifted it to his lips. His mind stood to the side of the bed, gawking at him, as he tasted it. Citrus and salt. Addictive.

"God, Klaus, but I love you," Dorian moaned. Klaus looked up. Huge ocean blue eyes, dark with passion, surrounded by spiky lashes, stared at him as if mesmerized. The hold on his cock tightened reactively, and he withdrew slightly and thrust back in automatic response.

His movement broke the strange paralysis seeing, and feeling, Dorian's climax had imposed upon him. Once his hips began to move again, they would not be stopped, and in very little time his back was arching, his hands were digging once more into Dorian's hips, and he was in the throes of an orgasm unlike any of the admittedly few he had ever experienced. If it wasn't absolutely ridiculous to assume so, he'd've thought he'd actually lost consciousness.

As it was, he was barely able to move, collapsing atop Dorian and burying his face in a pile of curls that tickled his nose and smelt of sweat and roses. He didn't pay much attention as strong arms shifted him about, allowing his heavy body to be arranged, covered, and drawn back up to rest against that incredible warmth. For the first time in his entire life he went to sleep without the proper attire. With a bedmate. On sticky sheets.

Content.

It didn't last, of course. Insanity seldom did, outside of Russian novels and psychiatric wards. Once dawn broke, his senses returned to him. They lost no time waking him up, demanding he clean up the mess in which he found himself. Dorian did not react well to being dumped, stark naked, in the middle of the floor, then having his trousers thrown atop his head.

"The next time," he proclaimed as grandly as possible whilst hopping about on one foot and attempting to put both trousers and socks on at the same time, "you will come to me!"

Eberbach ushered him out the side door, glancing furtively about to ensure that no servants were watching and hoping like hell the KGB hadn't yet replaced the perimeter cameras he'd disabled two days before. Then he barked with nothing like his usual authority, "When hell freezes over! Verpiss dich! Fuck off!" Even repetition didn't help.

Perhaps time and distance would.

By Christmas, his life was on an even keel again. The dreams had finally stopped, by the simple expedient of working until he fell over from exhaustion and his flesh was too tired to betray him. Eroica flitted off to Syria and stole some useless pieces of statuary and a few decent jewels, and stayed the hell away from Germany. Eberbach kept close to home, and burned the sheets from his bed, replacing them with cotton as virgin as he had at one time been.

It helped. Not much.

He spent a lot of time in church. It was very calming and the priest's voice was a good soporific. He'd nearly convinced himself that the previous autumn had been nothing more than a particularly vivid nightmare when his chief called him in to the office and forced him to take a new assignment.

To steal plans from the safe at the Vatican. In Rome. Surrounded by Italians. Worse, to commission an expert to steal those plans on behalf of NATO. A particular expert, whom it had been determined would best be approached by a particular NATO officer for whom said expert thief had a peculiar fondness.

Klaus stared out the window of the Benz as it made its way through the slushy streets toward the airport. He wondered when Hell had frozen over, and how it had managed to escape his notice. It's only business, he told himself sternly. I'm simply doing my duty. The words had no effect on the anticipation heating his blood, no matter how often he repeated, over and over, 'Duty.'

Watching his target board the train at Amsterdam station, his eyes lingered on the light glinting off golden hair, and knew it would never simply be duty. Not with Eroica.

Never again.

_end / beginning / chaos as usual_

 


End file.
